The White Tulip
by K.Riley
Summary: Post-Season 5; The Bishop-Clan was always strong when the five of them were together. It was only a matter of time before he was returned to them.
**I just finished watching** **Fringe** **for the first time ever and I get why Walter thought he had to sacrifice himself—I really do. But technically, if the future was so freaking advanced that they could send people back in time, why couldn't they do it? Or why couldn't Walter have stolen some of the Observers tech and been able to come home, where he belonged? This is my story of what happened after the Bishop-Clan saved the world and after Peter received the white tulip in the mail because the Bishop-Clan isn't whole without their Walter.**

 **And for any of my** **Growing Pains** **readers, yes, I said I wasn't getting side-tracked unless commissioned but this little thing just HAD to come out because I love the Bishop-Clan when they're all together and as good an ending as Fringe was, I needed a little bit more. So, ta-da.**

 **Story Word Count: 1,106**

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 **The White Tulip**

Peter stared at the white tulip in his hand.

The world stopped as his eyes sucked in the design and tried to comprehend what he was seeing. Logically, he knew what it meant but for some reason the synapses in his brain were either not firing correctly or they were refusing to. Basically, he couldn't seem to wrap his mind around it; he would later attest to the latter being as he didn't _want_ to understand. The icon for their family (or just him and his father)—the white tulip—was a symbol of forgiveness whether offered from the giver or requesting it be given from the receiver, of getting back onto the correct path and doing the absolute right thing no matter if it broke your heart to do it. Walter, his _Dad_ , was making something right and more than likely, that meant he was gone.

Gone.

What did that even mean?

No more new and strange nicknames for Astrid?

No more peculiar experiments involving human tissue and food?

No more strange requests for candy at the oddest and sometimes worst times of night?

No more LSD or acid trips that left the observer—not the bald kind, the generic (you, me) kind—mystified but amused?

No more records playing hits that he grew up to from the sixties and seventies eras or any of the classical pieces that just couldn't be played on anything other than vinyl?

The girls were going to be heartbroken.

He was well on his way to it, already.

Olivia knew him well enough to wait until after they put Etta to bed that night to ask what was wrong, having let him try to work through his problem on his own before offering a receptive ear and a stable soundboard. Instead, when he told her his fears about the white tulip, she cried. She actually, uncharacteristically broke down and cried when he told her. But he cried quietly right along with her, both of them holding onto the other as their grief in the loss of a Bishop overtook them.

The next morning, when three-year-old Etta asked when 'G'ampa' was, since he almost always was up for breakfast or was quick to come down, Olivia wasn't able to speak for a long minute. Peter was forced to tell the three-year-old that her grandfather went away for a little while but he was still watching over her. His daughter was not pleased when her Daddy didn't have the answer for when 'G'ampa' would be back but she knew sometimes he did go away for a little bit. Of course, her parents or Aunt Astrid were usually hissing the words 'acid' or 'LSD' along with it.

But 'G'ampa' always came back to them.

He would this time, too; he had to.

He promised her.

Astrid, adopted into the fold with the many pet names Walter had given her over the years and often looked to as one of the closest and dearest of friends, and perhaps even a niece of some sort, stumbled back and sat down heavily on her stool in the lab when somber faced Peter and Olivia told them Walter was gone. At least for now. She later cried quietly while brushing Gene and playing one of Walter's Bowie vinyls, the one William Belle had stolen and hidden away in his safe.

Agent Broyles, though not a true member of the Bishop-Clan but still a close and highly trusted friend, was sympathetic and subdued. He was the one who asked them what they wanted to do. Hold a service? Have a burial? Wait to see if the man would return? In private and quietly, just so as not to give the rest of the Bishop-Clan any hope only to dash it, he ran a continuous search to find any lead where one Walter Bishop had mysteriously disappeared to, though with him, it was possible he might have jumped worlds, or possibly even times. One could never be certain with that brilliant man. Nina was a big help, as well.

However, time passed as it always does as Spring shifted into a scorching Summer. Days, weeks, and months passed. Hope was beginning to dwindle of ever seeing the elderly man again except, maybe Etta; it was so much better than amazingly good that she was such a positive child and trusted that he 'G'ampa' would return.

Peter sometimes lay in bed at night, wishing, hoping, and even praying to a god he didn't believe in that Walter was alright, wherever he was and doing whatever it was he was doing to make amends or possibly even save the world. They had done it a few times now so why not a few more, right? Sometimes he imagined stopping by the lab, which had been kept open just under the hope that one day Walter would stride back in. He imagined taking a look around and suddenly his Dad would be there. Or maybe he would be taking a walk and suddenly Walter would be meandering towards him. He imagined the things his father would say with that innocent smile he usually had, especially after a dose of home-brewed LSD or acid. He would tell him fantastic stories of where he had been and what he had been doing but was more than happy to finally be home. Peter imagined yelling and crying and hugging his Dad and just being so happy Walter was back.

Then he would wake up.

Time continued to flow forward. The leaves changed from green to yellows, oranges, and reds as the temperatures dipped and people began bundling up more and more. There hadn't been a Fringe case in two months now but the FBI was kept busy with normal things.

Then, finally, it happened.

It was Thanksgiving morning of all days.

The doorbell rang.

Peter, holding Etta to show his nearly four-year-old what he and Mommy were cooking for dinner that night, turned to go answer it. He was wearing sweats and a t-shirt but had plenty of time before Astrid and her father came over to join them. The moment The young father pulled back the door and lit his eyes upon the gray-haired man standing on his stoop with familiar sweater and flat cap, holding a bouquet of white tulips, his heart skipped a beat, and then he was grinning and his eyes were tearing up because the Bishop-Clan was always strongest when the five of them were together and Peter had known, in the deepest part of himself, that it was only a matter of time before he was returned to him.

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 **So my lovelies, that is the end of my Fringe little one-shot. There will be no more of this particular story arch unless requested of me. I am thinking about doing a one-shot of the Dunham-Bishop wedding, maybe, or maybe a one-shot that peeks into periods of their lives between the end of season 4 and the last episode of season 5, since technically season 5 doesn't exactly exist. Technically. Let me know what you think, what you want, etc.**

 **Until next time, I wish you all good health; good weather and I'll talk to you later, gaters.**


End file.
